


Greyscale

by Teeth



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Afterlife, Angst with a Happy Ending, Ayakashi, Emotional Constipation, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Oikawa Tooru Being an Asshole, Oikawa Tooru is Bad at Feelings, Oikawa Tooru is a Little Shit, Oikawa Tooru is a Mess, Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Personal Growth, Slow Burn, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, but so is the main character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-27
Updated: 2020-12-13
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:54:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27747835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teeth/pseuds/Teeth
Summary: Oikawa thinks back on it sometimes: when one day they offer him shelter and something tangible to grasp at, and he is alone and confused, he remembers nothing about himself, it sure seems like a good option to take the chance. And when he does take it, it kicks him in the face, makes him grit his teeth underneath a sweet smile, and occasionally wish he was dead.Except dropping dead is not on the menu any more.
Relationships: Oikawa Tooru/Original Nonbinary Character, Oikawa Tooru/Reader
Comments: 10
Kudos: 28





	1. When in doubt, choose lavender

**Author's Note:**

> **Important notes:**
> 
> ❀ This will be all told from Oikawa's perspective. Paragraphs in cursive are Oikawa's thoughts unless described otherwise. Some of it will be stuff that is insulting the other characters and real people, and are not my opinions on the subject(s). Worry not, he'll grow wiser. Eventually.
> 
> ❀ All of the Haikyuu!! characters are based on the post-timeskip chapters, for example Oikawa being 26-27.
> 
> ❀ 2-3 things in the worldbuilding are based on Noragami. I'll mention them in chapter end notes when they appear.
> 
> ❀ I won't put some warnings in the tags or here because of spoilers, so _please ask_ if anything concerns you.
> 
> ❀ I usually don't like having Japanese honorifics in fics that are written in English, but here they are important.
> 
> ❀ I am nonbinary. I yearn for more representation and visibility, so I'm gonna do some myself. MC is nonbinary, AFAB (does the birth part count here, though...?)

It was like he had been pondering over something unclear, got so lost in deep thought that his brain switched to idle, eyes staring unfocused ahead and seeing nothing — like when you trail off during a boring lecture and observe a bird on the tree through the window. Consciousness drowns in a meaningless babble to the point when it becomes nothing but white noise. 

When he blinked and skipped back to reality, he discovered that he was sitting on an unfamiliar beach, barefoot, dressed in a dark grey yukata and that the wind was sucking all the warmth out of his body. The cloud-infested sky was the colour of his clothes and so was the sea and the half-rotten seaweed piled in a never-ending line on the shore. A chaotic mass of seagulls was feasting on a washed up carcass of some animal. Perhaps a dolphin, judging by the size. Most of the sight was obscured by the white wings and dirtied heads, so he couldn't really tell. 

Or maybe it was a human corpse and he blanched at the thought, although that was unlikely. Probably. He wasn't sure why. The stench was being blown away from him by the wind, although the reeking seaweed wasn't all that much nicer.

He shuddered and wrapped the halves of his kimono tighter around his chest.

… should his arms be so skinny?

Skin and bones, skin and bones. They shouldn't be so haggard. Were they fat? Muscular? Or lean? He suspected it was somewhere between the second and last, but it might have been his vanity speaking just as well. 

His nails were too long for his liking. He watched the welter of birds and munched off the excessive four or five millimetres from his fingernails, one by one, spitting out the bit-off pieces onto the damp sand. That way he also discovered that his lips were chapped raw and his teeth were unwashed and gross. He didn't mind the longish hair pulled and tangled in the wind, but the stubble on his face was somehow unexpected.

“Look at that, Akaashi-kun. You really found a hell of a problem.”

He scowled and glared over his shoulder. Two figures were standing a couple of steps behind him, watching him like he was a zoo specimen.

“True, it is a dark grey, Sumigami-sama.”

_Your Majesty Ink Deity. Lame, lame, lame. Who the hell would allow being called that?_

He turned back to stare at the sea, determined to ignore the two strangers.

“What to you think, Akaashi-kun?”

“I would advise against, Sumigami-sama. It will be a burden.”

“I did think it would be pointless asking you.” Lame-Name sighed. “Oi, you. Get up. I'm talking to you, pretty boy.”

_Ignore._

He stood up.

_Ignore!_

He turned around.

_IGNORE!_

He looked expressionlessly at Lame-Name. They were dressed up for cold, not for style, obscuring any shapes and only leaving the fact that they were either overweight or wearing an insane number of layers. Long black coat, grey hat, grey boots, grey and black scarf. He couldn't guess whether they were a man or a woman, but they were rather in their late twenties, judging by the voice.

“Oh, you're taller than me.”

“That’s not a high bar,” he replied.

“Is that so…” Lame-Name stepped over his jab unfazed. “Come here.”

“I still advise against this, Sumigami-sama. _It_ is going to be troublesome. Or worse.” The one called Akaashi was around as tall as he was, and dressed up for style, not for cold, magnifying the clean-cut lean shapes of his body. He seemed to be in his mid-twenties. “I know I suggested checking it out, but now that I can see up close…”

“ _Come here_ , I said.” Lame-Name showed no signs that they heard Akaashi. “That's right, one step after another. No rush. Come here, tadpole.”

_The eyes._

His entire frame froze on the spot.

They closed the remaining distance to stand almost toe-to-toe and stared up at him.

“Sorry to break it to you like this, but you are dead. You might have noticed your body over there.”

_Those seagulls were hiding what exactly…?_

“Wha—” His voice broke in his dry throat. He coughed violently and turned away, wheezing. He wiped his mouth and glared down.

“You are currently delicious fodder for phantoms. And some others, the list is pretty long.”

“I'm standing right here,” he drawled. “I'm not _dead._ ”

“Really? You seem intelligent enough to notice something like this. Is he intelligent enough, Akaashi-kun?”

“It should be, Sumigami-sama.”

“Don't call him an it, Akaashi-kun.”

“I apologise, Sir. That is a soul, though. I cannot see what form it takes. To me, it is but a dark grey orb with little shine left.”

“I've already addressed him as a he, Akaashi-kun. You are not being ignorant, you are being nasty.”

“Sumigami-sama also addressed it as a _tadpole_.”

“But he is one right now, isn’t he? About to become something or getting eaten? Aaargh, anyway…” Lame-Name yawned under the scarf covering the lower half of their face. “I've got a lucky option for you, little tadpole. You see, I have a staff shortage these days, so I might just give you a name and place to stay at.”

“ _A name?_ ” He snorted. “Are you an idiot? I don't—“

He went silent.

“Oh? Your system crashed?” 

Their eyes remained the same, black, unmoved and bottomless, and they were starting to creep him out. 

“The memory of your life is gone. It was erased from you the moment your heart stopped beating. You won't be getting back any of it, ever. Get over it and move on. My rear is about to freeze off.”

He didn't remember his own name. He didn’t remember _anything_. He had no idea where he was nor how he got there, where were his clothes or if there was anyone that knew him that he could ask for help. He was so cold that he couldn't feel his hands nor feet.

The decision was simple. He smiled politely.

“What can I help you with, if I may ask?”

“Like I’ve said. I need staff. My job is pretty time-consuming, and I don’t have much to spare for anything else.”

“Your job?”

“Oh, this and that. Browsing requests, granting some, meddling, plotting, et cetera.”

“You are too humble, Sumigami-sama,” that Akaashi remarked. “I wouldn’t have my designation if it wasn’t for you.”

“Flattery. Manga is horrid these days.”

“With all due respect, I cannot agree with that.”

He watched as the two strangers discussed with a tad of formality. Designations? Manga? Requests? What was any of it about?

“Yes, yes, anyway. You. What should I name you, huh? What name do you look like?” Lame-Name tilted their head, the eerie eyes scanning his face unhurriedly. “Mori? Nakahara? Furudate?”

“If I may suggest, perhaps–”

“I’m not naming him Bokuto, Akaashi-kun,” Lame-Name cut him off right away. “No, none of that…”

For some reason, he felt excited. He had no idea what was going on, for all he knew he had a heavy case of amnesia and these two were full of shit, or even he was simply stuck in a nightmare, but something in the pit of his stomach weighted on him, and a name sounded like…

“Oh, I’ve got it,” they finally said and raised their hand to draw in the air. There were no visible lines, nothing there, but at the same time he was sure that if he reached out, there would be something tangible under his fingertips.

Akaashi turned away and covered his ears.

“Henceforth you shall be Oikawa, and the core of you shall be Tōru, so says I, Sumi-no-Gami…”

And he _felt_ something burning the inside of his left wrist. There it was, deep blood red mark showing miniatures of the exact signs the stranger wrote in the air:

#  _及  
川_

Oikawa. There was nothing marking _Tōru_ below it, though. He rubbed at it – nothing smudged, the lines were crisp and clear like a birthmark.

“How did you do that?” he asked suspiciously.

Lame-Name didn’t answer right away. He couldn’t see their expression very well, since only their eyes were visible in the little space between the wide scarf and low-pulled hat, but they were frowning. Their eyes narrowed and they pulled the scarf down to take a deep breath. Their cheeks were round and devoid of any colour. They exhaled slowly and wiped their eyes, muttering something he couldn’t catch.

“One of my perks,” they replied eventually with a shrug. “You must be cold, huh?”

They unravelled the scarf, ridiculously long, chequered in black and grey, grabbed him by the forearm to pull him down, and looped the scarf around his neck and shoulders. They patted his head and let go.

“There. This will have to do for now. It’s not far, so don’t worry. Come on.”

He – or he could think of himself _Oikawa_ until he remembered his name, so – Oikawa touched the scarf. It was warm and soft, and strongly smelled of something earthy that he couldn’t recognise. It was neither a pleasant nor unpleasant scent, just weird.

Lame-Name was already a couple of metres ahead, giving him a stare over their shoulder.

“Come on, before you get a cold.”

“If I’m dead, how can I get a cold?”

They shrugged again and started walking. Over a short fence and several wet dunes, there was a couple of trees and a line of wooden shacks. He followed a step behind them, looking around confusedly.

“Where’s that Akaashi guy?”

“He went home,” Lame-Name droned. “We have to take a longer route, I don’t like carrying through another person.”

The shacks ended and the area shifted to a village, small houses, asphalt roads, tangled power lines connecting the houses to wooden poles. A couple of school kids in winter black uniforms passed them in the other direction, neither paying them any attention, not even a glance, even though he was dressed so oddly and without shoes. A car made a curve around them without honking despite that they were walking almost in the middle of the street.

“What do you mean by _carrying through?_ ” he asked. 

Lame-Name spread their arms in a wide circle around them as if to make him direct his attention to their surroundings.

“This is the Near Shore. For the living. We’re going to the Far Shore.”

“… for the dead?”

“I’m not dead. Not everyone there is.”

“This all sounds like bullshit,” he scoffed, wrapping his arms around himself. It _was_ cold.

“Doesn’t it?” was an answer the didn’t expect. Lame-Name kept talking in the same passionless voice, “I’m going to explain things to you when we get home, do be so kind as not to take up my attention until then. I need my concentration.”

“Why should I–”

“It wasn’t a request,” Lame-Name cut in before he could finish the question.

Oikawa snapped his jaw shut, glaring at their back.

_You’re gonna get it, Lame-Name. Ordering me around? What am I, a slave?_

“Uh-uh, it should be…” they muttered, “right about here…”

They turned into a narrow pathway between two buildings, concrete covered in moss in the corners. On the other side was a smaller street and a stripe of grass descending into a stream that he could easily leap over. And on its farther bank, separated from the water by a footpath, a stand-alone wooden shrine to Ebisu. Lame-Name glanced upstream, and downstream, and grunted.

“Would’ve thought the bridge would be right by the shrine, _but nooo_ , precious humans do like taking their walks, eh? Well, can’t be helped.” They glanced over their shoulder at him. “You can, of course, take your time and find a bridge somewhere, but I’m taking the shortcut.”

They pulled at their hat to make sure it stayed on properly, huffed, and made the rest of the way to the river in a fast run, gaining momentum to leap over the water. They wobbled on the steep bank, but caught balance, climbed up to the dirt path, and approached the shrine.

“Well?”

Oikawa walked over to the grass. It was nicely soft against his bare feet despite being desiccated and yellow-grey, but cold like everything else. He looked forward. Did they really have to take that run beforehand? The image of them in the air, short and wide in that coat, made him think of a skipping ball. He clicked his tongue and jumped over the stream right from the spot he stood at.

Lame-Name extended their black glove-clad hand to him. He stared at it.

“Hold my hand,” they spoke slowly and clearly, as if he was an idiot and didn’t know what they had meant.

He didn’t want to touch them whatsoever, never mind holding hands. He didn’t like the way they addressed him, didn’t like their tone, the deadpan aura, the dismissal, _hell_ , he didn’t like their appearance to begin with, especially the creepy eyes.

What he did want, however, was to get a temporary shelter, enough so he could put himself together and decide what to do next, and shelter was what Lame-Name had offered.

He clenched his jaw and took their hand.

“There we go. Now don’t panic.” They reached out the other hand towards the shrine.

“ _Panic–?_ ” Oikawa started, but then the tip of Lame-Name’s glove touched the wood.

Everything around them suddenly turned so bright that he clenched his eyes shut and covered them with his free hand, and still it wasn’t enough. It burned into his eyelids, unbearable, and then–

–it was over.

Oikawa opened his eyes, scowling, trying to see anything through afterimages flooding his vision. There was no hold on his hand, his feet were planted on something smooth and hard, and it wasn’t cold any more. The strange earthy smell he felt on the scarf was prevalent over anything else. He blinked rapidly and slowly he started noticing things around him. He stood on a dark, wooden floor. The wall in front of him was a regular paper screen.

“Ah, _rats_ , I hate shrine-hiking.”

Lame-Name was rubbing their eyes with likely the same expression he had, which was the most he had seen so far. Behind them, the room stretched far and wide, with an empty, dusty square hearth in the middle surrounded with pillows. Everything was black, grey, or white. And covered in dust.

“What is this place?” he asked, not bothering to hide the disdain in his voice.

“Welcome to my humble abode,” Lame-Name said, again unperturbed by his tone. “I don’t use this room much.” They mumbled to themself, “it was supposed to be the entryway, me dammit.”

They pulled off their hat, spilling a mess of thick, black hair reaching past their shoulders.

_Of course it’s black._

“Come on.”

They didn’t wait for his reply. Again, he followed begrudgingly, looking around. A corridor, paper walls, paper screens, wooden floors. Presumably, closed rooms on the left side. Muted grey light.

“Don’t concern yourself with this part of the house. I don’t use it, there’s no point in cleaning it up.”

Oikawa raised his eyebrows. They couldn’t have possibly implied what he thought they did.

“Are you suggesting I’ll be _cleaning_ anything here?” he asked incredulously.

“I’m not suggesting.”

“You’re joking!” he barked. “For fuck’s sake, you’ve got to be joking! I’m not a cleaning servant!”

“Language,” they droned. “I don’t like swearing.”

_What the fuck did I agree on?_

He took a deep breath, counted from ten to zero. Twice. He smiled.

“Sure,” he replied sweetly. “Sorry about that.”

Lame-Name rubbed their nape. The corridor floor turned from dusty to shiny, with the dust only remaining by the walls, so likely it was polished by feet. One screen door on the left was open; the room beyond was filled with cardboard boxes stacked up to the ceiling. They stopped at the next door and Lame-Name slid them aside. One wide window set in an actual brick wall – painted white – allowed in cloudy afternoon light, showing a low table right below it, a set of dark wooden furniture – wardrobes with doors ajar and empty inside – and a large double bed in a corner. A paper cube lamp hung from the white ceiling.

“That’s your room,” Lame-Name announced. “I’ll show you where the beddings are later.”

“Cool.”

They walked on.

“This is my room,” they waved their hand at the next door. “Don’t concern yourself with it and don’t go inside unless invited, and I’ll do the same about your room.”

“That’s reasonable,” he agreed.

The corridor opened into a larger space with a big kotatsu in the middle and a whole lot of cushions and pillows strewn about with no order. Again paper walls, but the floor was tatami for a change, and in the corner on their right, there was a square TV mounted inside what looked like a stationary wooden shrine, small tiled roof above it included. What took him aback was the amount of garbage on the tabletop, mostly empty bottles and snack packagings.

“Daily room. One of your concerns.”

The three other walls also had doors, all of them open.

“My office–” they pointed straight ahead, kicking off their shoes. “None of your concern. You can enter without asking.” They pointed to the left. “Corridor to the kitchen, pantry, closet, bathroom, toilet, and washroom.” And to the right– “entryway, porch. All your concern.”

“So… cleaning. Is that all?” he asked with another sweet smile. 

“Cooking and laundry.”

_So a fucking housekeeper. Great. Fun-fucking-tastic._

“I’m not sure I know how to cook,” he admitted instead.

“That’s all right. I have lots of cook books, and you can learn fast.”

Oikawa gritted his teeth under the smile. Lame-Name unzipped their coat and dropped it haphazardly on one of the cushions. Underneath, they wore light grey sweater, under it a fluffy black turtleneck, then grey leggings, and thick grey socks. He was right both about the layers and their build – at the very least the leggings didn’t leave any doubt about how thick their legs were, and the top wear surely covered rolls on a fat stomach and chest.

 _Gross_ , he thought, scowling when Lame-Name wasn’t looking.

“Let’s find you some clothes, there should be something your size in the closet,” Lame-Name informed him, rubbing the back of their neck again. His smile returned before they glanced at him. “You can’t walk around in those rags forever.”

He was lead into the corridor on the left, brick walls with solid wooden doors on the left side, and a line of four windows on the other. Lame-Name opened the third door and clicked the light switch.

Rows of hanger lines with clothes in no comprehensive order, kimonos next to sweaters, bathrobes next to coats and trousers, pyjamas and skirts, all various sizes, all black, grey, or white, all giving off that earthy smell. Piles of scarves on the floor, next to heaps of hats, gloves, shoes (luckily, those were in pairs), socks (not in pairs), and one huge, floor-to-ceiling mirror in a wrestled-out wall space between all that.

“Why are the kimonos on those regular hangers?” he asked before he stopped himself. “That’s not how you should store them.”

“You can concern yourself with them if it bothers you,” Lame-Name replied simply.

_As fucking if._

“Anyway…” they continued, “knock yourself out. I reckon you’ll find plenty that will fit you. And once you do, get yourself a thorough shower. Towels are in the washroom. In the bathroom, black bottles are shampoos, dark grey – conditioners, light grey – soaps, white – oils, transparent – bubble soaps.” Having said that, Lame-Name turned around and left the room, hands in pockets. “Oh, and toothbrushes and paste are in the drawer under the mirror.”

Oikawa stood stock still, staring in disbelief at their receding form.

“What about underwear?!” he blurted out, as if that was the only thing he was confounded about.

“Drawers in the far left corner. All unused, don’t fret,” came from the daily room.

He stepped over to the mirror. It wasn’t perfectly even, some of his shapes wobbled and slightly deformed depending on where he stood, but it was enough for him to finally have a look at himself. He had to admit, he looked like shit. Tangled, greasy, brown hair extending limply below his stubbly jawline, hollow cheeks and dark circles under bloodshot eyes. The dark grey yukata wasn’t actually a solid grey – it was as if it was covered in smaller and bigger stains, some overlapping and creating darker shades. The scratchy fabric hung on him loosely and again he thought that how skinny his body was just wasn’t _right_.

It took him over an hour to dig through enough clothes to find a set that wouldn’t leave his limbs sticking out halfway. Most of the stuff was too small for him, but also too slim-fitted for Lame-Name as well, and he spotted several that were too big even for his body. He had suspected this by the sheer number of closed rooms they had passed on their way, but there had to be plenty of people living here at some point.

He ended up with black slacks, dark grey shirt, and wide zigzag-patterned, light greys and white sweater. They all looked completely out of style, old-fashioned to the point where he almost considered browsing the kimonos. He figured he didn’t need shoes for the time being, but he picked out several socks – not _pairs_ of socks, since they were not coupled at all, but he tried his best to match the shades. A low drawers was filled with all sorts of plastic-wrapped undergarments, from bras and binders to just about any bottoms imaginable. He succeeded in pulling out a couple of black boxer briefs.

He hunted down a dark grey chequered bathrobe, but there were no pyjamas of his size.

Oikawa scratched his chin and walked out of the room, leaving the light on out of spite. While he had been struggling in the closet, the winter sky outside turned black.

The washroom was way smaller, and to his horror, contained a stack of dirty laundry reaching higher than his head. An old washing machine poked out of the side of the pile and he could only hope that somewhere inside was a dryer. The opposite wall was lined with shelves with towels, bedsheets and covers carelessly rolled and crumpled into balls, some laying pitifully on the floor. A wide wardrobe contained thankfully well put pillows, duvets, and blankets.

He groaned and covered his eyes with his hand.

“What a fucking slob,” he mumbled. “How can anyone be this much of a… uugh…”

Only the top three shelves contained neatly folded pieces, and he realised it had to be only because Lame-Name couldn’t reach up there. He could bet there was dust on the top ones. He pinched his lips and pulled two big white towels from under the first layer.

The bathroom was all black marble with white veins – no tiles, as if the entire thing was chiselled out of one giant block. Huge bathtub made from the same stone took up a quarter of the space, a walk-in shower separated with clear glass next to it, a bunch of shelves, and a wall mirror with a basin embedded in a white drawers below. The wide edge of the bathtub by the wall was cluttered with bottles of all shapes and sizes. To his utmost relief, the room was refreshingly clean.

Oikawa tooted, glancing between the shower and the tub. Lame-Name mentioned only taking a shower, but the tub called to him, and the prospect of taking his time and making them wait for his reappearance sat delightfully fine with his conscience. Without further debate, he turned the silver tap and watched happily the pour of steaming hot water. Replaying in memory the list of bottle contents, he sniffed several bubble soaps and dumped into the tub a half of a bottle of what he guessed was lavender scented.

He removed Lame-Name’s scarf, untied his yukata and realised with confusion that it had been put on wrong – right half over the left and not the other way around. He scoffed. Another thing that played into the bullshit Lame-Name had fed him, he was dressed like a corpse.

His body underneath was as haggard as his face, ribs poking out so much he could count them without touching, collarbones like branches of a long-dead tree, skinny arms and legs. He wasn’t only dressed like a corpse; he pretty much looked like one.

He closed his eyes and sighed when he finally sunk into the foam and water, sliding completely under the surface to get at least a bit of the gross feeling of his greasy hair out of the picture. He re-emerged and smiled contently, honestly, cupping his hands to pour more water over his face. Gone was the chill in his bones and the smell of rotting seaweed, replaced by soothing warmth and lavender.

Speaking of lavender, he uncorked the first shampoo within his reach. Aloe, he presumed. There was more lavender, coffee, rose, strawberry, and some others he couldn’t name. He picked the first one and couldn’t stop another happy sigh when he finally massaged more foam into his hair. Sage conditioner, tea tree soap, foam, hot water, clean hair, clean skin, all made his mood rise over his head. His skin was shiny and steaming and his fingertips wrinkly by the time he got out, rolled his hair into one towel and patted himself dry with the other. Deciding he would put on the clothes in his new room, he just put on the underwear and wrapped himself in the bathrobe. It didn’t seem so at first, but it actually turned out to be quite soft and fluffy on the inside. He hung one towel on a hook next to the shelves and dug into the drawers to find a toothbrush.

Lame-Name was sitting cross-legged at the kotatsu, watching some black-and-white anime on the small TV. In their hand was an open bottle with a liquid that had an actual colour – amber – and the other was wrist-deep in a bag of salted potato chips. They now wore a striped grey hanten on top of the rest.

“You smell like a greenhouse,” they commented with their back to him and good five metres distance.

_Worlds better than whatever it is that weird dirt smell on you._

“The cosmetics were amazing,” he replied in all honesty. “Difficult to hold back.”

“I suppose.” They took a long chug from the bottle and lifted something small from the table. “Here–” they threw the object at him over their shoulder, managing to set it perfectly into his hands despite not looking where he was.

He had to drop the clothes he had been carrying to catch it. An old alarm clock. The metal surface was scratched and it was missing one of the four short legs. It showed half past nine.

“I have coffee at six in the morning,” they said in monotone, still watching the TV. “Black, hand poured, four sugars. Don’t be late.”

Oikawa gritted his teeth.

“Of course. Anything else?” he asked politely, shoving the clock into the pocket of his bathrobe and leaning down to pick up the clothes.

“No, not right now.”

“I’ll be off to my room, then. I still have to make the bed.”

“Sure.”

“Also, I didn’t find any pyjamas for me. There weren’t many clothes in my size in general.”

“I’ll fix that tomorrow.”

“Okay, thanks!”

He smiled sweetly and waved despite them not gracing him with a single stare. He still smiled when he walked down the corridor to his room, and he glanced over his shoulder. Lame-Name took a swing from the bottle again.

He smiled even wider.

_I will ruin you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From Noragami: the name mark on skin. 
> 
> Please please please let me know what you think, I'm really looking forward to hearing from you!


	2. Eel in the sky

Oikawa didn’t sleep the whole night. He lay in his new bed, tossing, shifting from side to side, eyes closed, eyes open, staring at the ceiling, at the wall, at the lamp, ears straining for any noise. It had to be the new place, he reckoned, new place and the whole fuckstack of the previous day that didn’t allow him to pass out.

And because he spent the whole time until the morning like that, he had a solid reason to suspect that Lame-Name hadn’t gone to bed either. The moment his clock pointed to midnight, the muted sounds of the TV ceased, and the glass bottle was set on the table for the last time. Then, nothing. No approaching footsteps, no sliding the door next to his room. By the time the light of the obscured sun filtered through the clouds and the clock showed half past five, he had enough of waiting. He put on the colourless clothes and ventured out to find the kitchen.

When he reached the daily room – the kotatsu still under a siege of empty bottles and other garbage – he heard Lame-Name’s voice coming from the office. They had mentioned he was allowed to enter there without invitation, but what good would it do if he couldn’t eavesdrop?

“… handle him all right, Omi-omi,” they droned hoarsely. “Narcissistic and two-faced, but that’s hardly a–”

Pause. He could hear no sound and realised that Lame-Name was most likely talking on a phone.

“That’s behind him now. The worst he’d done? That was… well, whatever you say, I’ve had far worse. Remember Hanamiya? Yes, yes, exactly.”

Silence, much longer than before.

“Kiyoomi… I’m fine. Come by next Tuesday, it’ll be cleaned up. You’ll see for yourself. I’ll call you later, I have a case of an eavesdropper.”

Oikawa gulped and retreated to the corridor as fast and as quiet as he could. Lame-Name didn’t follow him, though, and he made it to the kitchen without interruption.

The door opened and he groaned inwardly. He had already expected this after seeing the rest, but the kitchen was a _Mess_. Stacks of dirty dishes, crusty bits and sticky stains on the tiled floor (that would’ve been chequered in black and white if it was clean)… everywhere, actually. Old leftovers rotting and spreading mould… but the worst was the smell. He almost gagged and immediately pulled up his sweater to cover his nose and mouth, darting for the window. Cold air flowed in and he stood there, leaning outside over the windowsill, repeating every curse he knew in his mind. He had approximately fifteen minutes to prepare the coffee, and he was dreading browsing through this… this… _thing_ he had no comparison for. He was relieved that he hadn’t been hungry so far.

He glanced over this shoulder and noticed that there was a clean space among the hell after all – a small section next to the stove. He took a deep, deep breath, and approached it. There stood one tall, black mug, several bags of different sorts of ground coffee, a box of brown sugar cubes, and another of filters. On the stove stood an old, blackened kettle. He prayed that there was an access to the sink, and miraculously he found it; he withstood not breathing for long enough to fill the kettle and turn the stove on.

Back at the window, he wondered why the hell would he need to breathe if, as he had been told, he was dead. As he stared at the horrifying state of the kitchen, he remembered with near panic that Lame-Name expected him to clean it up. And the washroom. And the daily room. The bathroom looked fine, but the others… And he’d overheard that some Kiyoomi would visit, probably in a couple of days. And Lame-Name said everything would be clean by then.

The kettle whistled and he made another breathless journey to prepare the coffee. He poured a bit of the coffee grounds into the mug, added water, and…

“Ugh, how many was it? Six? They said something six…”

He dropped six sugar cubes. There was nothing to stir it with. He shrugged and with great relief left the kitchen, window still ajar.

Lame-Name’s office was a huge room, smaller only than the one with the unused hearth… that was what he had guessed, anyway, because it was filled with rows of bookshelves like a library, each shelf occupied with folders. A low table stood at a round window, the only round one he’d seen so far. On the table, piles of papers of all sizes, some rolled into scrolls, some flat, some folded. Between all that – a set of calligraphy brushes, an ink stone, an elaborate ink stick, and a stack of clean paper. On the floor next to the desk sat a black, rotary-dial telephone. The flat sitting cushion was vacant.

“Uh… Sumigami-sama?” he called, cringing at the address. “I brought coffee.”

Lame-Name appeared from between the shelves, carrying one grey folder. They wore the same clothes as yesterday, but their hair was pulled in a careless bun at the back of their head, and they had a dirty brush sticking behind their ear.

“Thank you. You can put it on the desk.” They placed the folder on the other side of the cushion, sat down cross-legged, and raised the mug to their lips. They frowned.

“Why are coffee grounds in it?”

“Well… it’s coffee?” he raised his eyebrows, however happy they didn’t bring up him _overhearing_ the phone talk.

Lame-Name sighed.

“You don’t know how to make hand poured coffee, do you, Oikawa.” It wasn’t a question.

“No.” He made an embarrassed face. “I don’t like coffee to begin with.”

“I’ll teach you the next time,” Lame-Name muttered and took a sip. “Oh… how many sugars did you add?”

“Six.”

“Two too many.”

“Oh. Sorry.” 

Lame-Name shrugged and downed the coffee anyway without scowling.

“At ten we are going out,” they informed.

“Out? Where?”

“Shopping. Have a look in the washroom if you have all the supplies you need for cleaning. As you’ve heard…” they stared at him blankly and he made an embarrassed face for real– “my brother will come in eight days. He is a very clean person who puts great care in order and hygiene, and at the very least the living room has to be spotless.”

He barely stopped himself from laughing.

“When was the last time he visited?” he asked innocently instead.

“Ten years ago, if I recall well.”

_Please don’t tell me this garbage dump hasn’t been cleaned in 10 years._

“So you haven’t seen him that long?”

“I did not say that. I pay him a visit sometimes, and we meet at gatherings.”

“Gatherings?”

“A get together once a year with other gods. I didn’t go the past couple of years, though.”

“Why not?”

“They are not obligatory and I didn’t feel like it,” they replied in a tone clearly indicating end of the conversation and handed him the empty mug. He reached out for it, but they didn’t let go. “And, Oikawa… do not eavesdrop. I do not appreciate it.”

“Of course,” he lied smoothly.

He took the mug with a smile and decided to leave it in the living room – there was no way his foot would be set in the kitchen. Up close, he discovered that the kotatsu tabletop was stained and sticky, and covered in crumbs, just like the tatami around it. At this point, he didn’t even groan. On his way to the washroom, he shut the door to the kitchen, hoping in earnest that by the time he’d have to enter again, the stench would be gone or minimized.

The state of the present cleaning supplies didn’t surprise him either. Old bottles with mostly dried up contents or outright empty, dirt-stiff mops and dust wipes he didn’t dare touching with bare hands. The rubber gloves he found were all too small for him, and all three buckets were cracked.

To sum it up, none of it was usable.

* * *

He found a pair of loafers that were his size somehow, and a coat that was way past being categorised as _vintage_ , so he was _sort of_ prepared for going out. From what he had seen from the windows, the house stood in the middle of nowhere, so he wondered how they would get wherever Lame-Name had planned. He hoped it wasn’t going to be the same trick as yesterday.

Lame-Name walked into the entryway, dressed in the same coat and hat and scarf, dragging a long sack on wheels behind them, the kind that old grannies used when getting groceries at a market. He rolled his eyes; another lame thing about them.

“One important rule,” they spoke. “Stay close and don’t wander away.”

“Uh, sure. I wasn’t planning to.”

That wasn’t mostly a lie. As the matters currently stood, he hadn’t prepared yet to do things on his own. He didn’t have anything besides the clothes on his back, and even those weren’t quite his. He watched as Lame-Name approached the door. They knocked four times and pulled it open.

What was outside didn’t match the view from the windows at all. His jaw dropped.

A narrow alley between tall buildings. To their right, a bright, bustling street, full of _colours_ and sunshine.

“We’ll get you a haircut first, this one doesn’t suit you at all,” Lame-Name said, already several steps ahead. “Close the door behind you.”

“How… how _are_ we here?” he uttered, bewildered. “How did we get here?”

“One of my perks,” they replied, shrugging. “Stay close.”

“ _And don’t wander away_ , yeah, I got it.” He rolled his eyes. “You’re easy to spot, I won’t get lost.”

“Getting lost would be the least of your problems.”

They mingled into the crowd, marching with clear intention, and he followed, looking around. Things seemed… odd. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but there was something about the area and the people that didn’t sit right with him, like he had ended up in a foreign land, but banners and shop names were in Japanese, so where did that sensation come from?

“What problems?” he asked.

Lame-Name wordlessly pointed up with their index finger. He glanced at the sky and staggered with a gasp.

“What is that?!”

A couple of passers-by stared at him, but he was too shocked by the view above to notice.

It was like a gargantuan black eel, bigger than he could comprehend, twisting and floating among the buildings high up in the air, giant head bearing dozens of white eyes, and yet none of the people around them seemed to care.

“Top contender for soul snacking,” Lame-Name said, as if that explained anything. “Luckily for us, he’s too big to notice a little fly like you or me. But there are smaller ones down here, and you really don’t want to meet them.”

“Yeah, no shit…” he mumbled weakly.

“They stick around the living, so the more people around, the more phantoms you get. That one up there is pretty old and had a lot to eat, that’s why he’s so big. He’s always floating around here.”

“I see…”

“And mind your language.”

“Sorry.”

They resumed the walk, but he couldn’t stop himself from peeking up.

“So… the people here can’t see it?”

“Correct. Most Near Shore dwellers can’t see the phantoms and others, and when they see us, _if_ they see us, they forget quickly. They subconsciously feel that we _are_ there, so they don’t bump into us, but usually that’s about it unless we actively get their attention.”

_Bullshit. It’s a busy city. Why would strangers care about someone passing them by anyway?_

Oikawa didn’t have a sufficient explanation for whatever was up there _yet_ , but he knew there had to be a normal way to justify it. With that in mind, he stopped glancing and focused on the walk forward. Seeing so much colour after being bombarded with nothing but black, grey, and white was delightful, the contrast, the variety, he soaked in it all. A minute or two later, Lame-Name halted at a glass door to a barber shop.

“In we go,” they announced, pushing the door open.

A little bell rang above them and two hairdressers looked up.

“Welcome, welcome– Yamamura-san?” A woman in a pink blouse and blue leggings was visibly surprised. “Oh my, it’s been a while! Are we going wild again?”

“Yamamura-san?” Oikawa repeated confusedly.

“Naomi-chan, so nice to see you again,” Lame-Name replied… smiling.

Oikawa thanked himself in thought that he controlled his face well enough not to gawk like an idiot. He had been already convinced that Lame-Name was incapable of making any facial expressions, and here they were, with a small smile on their thin lips; the more he looked, however, the more he realised that it didn’t really reach their creepy eyes.

“Mmm, no, I brought my colleague with me, he needs a good clean-up.”

_What needs a good clean-up is your whole pigsty of a house and your habits, you slob. And COLLEAGUE? As fucking if, what a great new name for a slave._

“I see, that will be something for Ikuo-chan,” Naomi mused, tapping her pointy chin.

The other hairdresser, currently occupied with a client, winked at him. He was a good-looking guy in his early twenties, with an immaculate, oval face, well-shaped body dressed in a dark blue button-up and grey jeans.

“Give me ten minutes, I’m almost done with Kawanishi-san here.” His voice was pleasant, a soft baritone easy on the ear.

Lame-Name nodded and they both sat down on a comfy sofa facing the work stands. Lame-Name picked some magazine and started browsing it, checking out various hairstyles with general disinterest. Oikawa took one as well, with a redhead woman on the cover. He was about to open it when the publication number caught his eye.

_12/2019._

“Sumi– um, Yamamura-san…” he began slowly, quietly. “What year is it?”

“2020. 13th of January, Monday, if you’d like to know,” they answered just as quietly.

He bit his lips. That couldn’t be right. He couldn’t guess why, but it sounded all wrong.

“If it seems weird to you, it might be because you died in the 1960’s.” Lame-Name cleared their throat and spoke louder, “Naomi-chan, actually, I like this one. Let’s get to it.”

Not looking back at his scarily pale face, Lame-Name stood up and walked away to sit in the black chair in front of the large mirror. Naomi studied whatever was on the page of the magazine and got to work, covering Lame-Name with a green cape and picking out a comb and scissors.

Oikawa stared at them, not really seeing anything.

Everything he had seen in the streets had seemed odd to him, but he couldn’t pinpoint why. Now he understood: the fashion, the cars, the architecture, the banners and stuff in shop windows… it was all _different_. He didn’t remember anything beyond the previous day, but in the pit of his stomach he felt that all those things had changed somehow, had been replaced, and he had no idea how or why.

_No, no, that’s ridiculous. I’m just confused. No need to bite any of that bullshit._

Ikuo had to call him several times before he blinked and returned to reality.

“Ah, sorry. Got lost in thought,” Oikawa admitted with a chuckle.

“That’s all right,” Ikuo dismissed it with a bright smile, swivelling the chair for him. “Do you have anything in mind?”

He had a whole lot in mind.

“No, not really. I only want to get rid of this–” Oikawa swatted out against the loose hanging strands of his hair that were a wavy disaster after free drying– “rat nest.”

“Hmm, let’s see…” Ikuo walked around him, watching intently. “I would definitely get you a good trim, you have some split ends… and this wasn’t modelled, it’s naturally wavy, isn’t it? Making it too short would be a waste. If my hair was like that, I would show it off all the time,” he laughed.

“Come on, don’t sell yourself short–” Oikawa winked at Ikuo’s reflection. “Your hair is cute.”

“We-well,” Ikuo stuttered; there was a light blush on his cheeks, “let’s make yours better than that.”

Oikawa closed his eyes, content with himself. Ikuo treated his hair gently, filling the time with idle chat over the snips of the scissors and later the buzz of the shaver. Oikawa didn’t have much to say about himself for obvious reasons, so to any questions he answered with noncommittal hums or few words; in turn, he got to know that Ikuo had been working for 2 years, he was 22 years old, he liked some band Oikawa had never heard about, and he had a dog.

“How about a shave? And I could do your eyebrows, too. On the house.”

“Oh, I couldn’t,” Oikawa protested, putting on a well-done embarrassed tone.

“It’s no problem!” Ikuo insisted with the same warm smile in his voice. “Don’t look yet…”

Another relaxing while or two later (except for the eyebrows part), he was told he could open his eyes.

“Huuuuuh, look at me…” he purred, touching his hair. It was much shorter now, lighter, shiny, and with the ends twisting up. His stubble was gone and eyebrows just on point. “This is perfect. You are a genius, Ikuo-chan.”

“Not at all–” Ikuo shook his head, cheeks pink. “Um… Oikawa-san… would you maybe…” he lowered his voice to a whisper and leaned closer. “Can I please have your number?”

“My colleague moved from overseas a couple of days ago, he doesn’t have a Japanese phone yet,” Lame-Name replied for him, looking into Oikawa’s eyes through the mirror reflection.

Ikuo’s face burned and Oikawa gritted his teeth.

_Fuck you._

“Yeah, sorry, not this time,” Oikawa apologized with a sad smile.

_Screw you, you fucking slob._

“I can give you mine, you can call me when you buy yours,” Ikuo offered.

The instant the glass door closed behind them, Oikawa imploded.

“What the fuck was that about?” he hissed, not wanting to get stared at just yet. “If you think you’re going to stop me from contacting other people, then–”

“Then what?”

Lame-Name gazed at him over their shoulder. Oikawa shut his jaw.

“You can throw that away. He’ll forget you by the evening.”

_Pig. Fucking dirty pig._

“He won’t! And don’t fucking tell me what to do!” he snarled. “This is abuse! And I want my own phone!”

“Okay,” Lame-Name agreed and continued walking, rubbing their nape.

“ _… okay?_ ” he repeated, eyes narrowed and one eyebrow raised.

“You’ll get your phone. You didn’t need to shout for it.” They glanced to the right, across the street. “But let’s get the other stuff done first.”

Oikawa glared at the back of their head with disbelief and suspicion. They waited for the green light and walked to the other side of the road, passed several offices, shops, and a restaurant, until they stopped at a general shop.

“Did you make a list of what you need?” they asked, unceremoniously dumping the granny bag into the shopping cart and diving between the shelves.

“For cleaning?” he scoffed. “Everything.”

By the time they left the shop, the granny bag was stuffed full, with mop and broom handles poking out. Time came for his new clothes and Oikawa knew exactly what he was going to do – the only dilemma he had was to whether go totally overboard with it or not. He should retain some sense of style, right?

Regardless, the moment they walked into some fashion chain shop, he passed by anything black, white, or grey without sparing a single glance.

_Colours! Colours, colours, colours! In your face, you boring, tasteless slob._

And he loved the current trends. He didn’t know how it used to be, but what he saw on the mannequins and the hangers was awesome, the crap he dug out of the closet by far couldn’t compare. He particularly liked mint and turquoise, and greens, and blues, but also violet, and yellow, and red, and pink, and just to drive the last nail, he picked obnoxiously acid green pyjamas, and another set of purple ones, printed in glow-in-the-dark flying saucers. They left the shop with six big paper bags that he had to carry by himself. To his dismay, Lame-Name didn’t seem to be perturbed by his choices at all; they made no comments whatsoever.

He was astonished when they entered the electronics shop. Astonished and horrified, because he realised how obsolete the appliances Lame-Name had were. Everything was shiny, smooth, he would say _cosmic_ even. Washing machines twice bigger than the barrel shaped thing back in the washroom, electric kettles, vacuum cleaners… TVs that not only were huge in comparison to that black-and-white, bulky kinetoscope, but they were flat, thin, and displayed fluid pictures _in colour_. Never mind that there was a dozen of things he didn’t know the purpose of, he had no idea where the phones were – nothing there resembled a phone the smallest bit.

A cute woman in the shop’s uniform approached them with a modest bow.

“We’re looking for a personal phone,” Lame-Name explained before she had a chance to welcome them.

_Personal phone?_

“So a smartphone, all right! Let me take you to the display, we had a new delivery just this morning, wonderful new models…”

_Smartphone? Smart? Phone?_

The woman showed them a whole row of tiny flat devices, and Oikawa looked at them, at the woman, and at Lame-Name, fully expecting this to be a joke. The shop assistant didn’t catch his glare and proceeded to describe several models, listing parameters that meant nothing to him while she used her finger to change what was on their screens. After his initial disbelief, he was utterly fascinated. He realised soon how much more complex the thing was from the rotary phone in Lame-Name’s office and became excited at the prospect of learning how to use the smartphone by himself. He figured the bigger the numbers she listed, the better the device, and Lame-Name ended up paying for his new red baby (the colour was definitely, purely accidental).

“Rats, I’m tired,” Lame-Name mumbled, pulling the granny basket back from where they came.

“How can you be tired if you are not human?” Oikawa asked, raising an eyebrow.

“I have a body. I do physical labour. I get tired.”

_You are fat and have no stamina, of course you are tired from a little walk. Physical labour my ass._

They returned to the side alley faster than he had expected. They must’ve made a loop, he reckoned, but his train of thought was broken when he saw that there was no door in the spot any more. Just another part of the wall, greyish and dirty, no different than the rest around it.

“Uh… why is there no…” he began.

“Wouldn’t want anyone to trespass when we’re not home, would we?” Lame-Name replied, knocking on the wall four times, and then giving it a light shove.

Oikawa watched with his jaw dropped at a suddenly visible, perfectly rectangular cut-out that swayed inwards, turning into dark wooden door with a steel handle. Beyond it – the familiar entryway leading to the daily room. The earthy scent spread from the inside.

“What are you waiting for?” Lame-Name called. “In we go.”

He passed the threshold and looked over his shoulder. The alley was still there and he could hear the noise from the bustling street. Lame-Name shut the door, kicked off their shoes, and dragged their feet to the daily room, leaving the granny bag behind. Oikawa put down the bags, glanced at Lame-Name, and silently cracked the door open. His eyes widened.

There was a wooden porch, stone steps leading to a winter garden with dark pines, some leafless, bare trees, grey rocks and gravel, yellowed moss and grass, and a roofed, wooden gate embedded in a brick wall. He closed the door, opened again, and there still was no alley, just the dead garden.

“If you’re done molesting the door handle, the cleaning awaits,” Lame-Name called from the daily room.

He ran into the daily room, staring at them incredulously.

“Why is there a garden outside?!”

“Plenty of houses have gardens outside,” they replied, taking off their hat and coat. “But if you want to know why there’s no alley any more, that’s–”

“ _–one of your perks_ ,” he finished for them dryly. “Fine. You don’t want to tell me, I don’t care.”

“It isn’t that difficult,” they continued, “but for now you’re better off not knowing how to do it.”

“Why not?!”

Lame-Name blinked slowly, combing fingers through their new hairdo. He hadn’t paid any attention to it until now, but it was a tad better than the previous unkempt mass; they had bangs down to their eyebrows, and the rest was cut in three layers, one at cheekbones so it edged in over the face, then at the jaw, and the rest remained the original length. What the bangs did, though, was making their chubby face rounder than the Moon.

“In case you’ve forgotten, it’s dangerous out there.”

The image of the giant thing in the sky returned, raising goosebumps on his arms.

“There was only that one floating all the way up there, and you’ve said it can’t notice us, and there were no others!” he pressed. “At least you could tell me how to–”

“Oikawa,” Lame-Name stopped him tiredly. “There were no others this time by sheer luck. If one were to consume me, I would just reincarnate here immediately, as a child, but with my memories intact. Because I’m a deity.” They sighed, rubbing the back of their neck. “But you are a soul. You have nothing else. Not even a living body. If you get eaten, that’s it for you. You won’t exist any more, anywhere. You will cease to _be_.”

He shuddered involuntarily. Lame-Name headed to the household corridor.

“Wash your hands after being outside,” they said blankly.

_Bullshit. All bullshit. I’m not dead to begin with. You keep telling yourself that, you slob._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> > There's a chance you might've recognised the name mentioned in the phonecall: Hanamiya Makoto from KNB was actually the character I initially planned to write this fic for, and first couple of pages were waiting 2-3 years before I came back to it (because _someone_ was writing TLBCC for over 4). Since I'm completely not into KNB any more, I decided to rewrite this for Oikawa, but wanted to leave this tiny mention of the original. Bye bye, Hanamiya!
> 
> > In case my description wasn't sufficient enough, Oikawa has now his original hairstyle. By that I mean the pre-timeskip one. I get that Furudate's drawing style has developed over the years and whatnot, but BOY THE FINAL HAIRCUTS ARE SO BAD except for maybe like 4 (Kenma am I right), and Oikawa's isn't one of those 4. I weep over Suga's poor, chopped hair, Furudate you monster
> 
> > I wrote Kiyoomi instead of Kiyōmi because writing Kiyoomi is more fun
> 
> > I'm about to make 2020 without a plague, you're welcome
> 
> > Thank you for the kudos and comments, those really make me happy!


	3. An atheist god

The house was waiting for him, dormant but wary. The daily room with its fester of besieged kotatsu, the mountain of ancient layers of dirty laundry in the washroom, and he hadn’t even seen the pantry yet, the door to it hidden somewhere among the immeasurable monstrosity of the kitchen. Oikawa could only pray that the pantry was at the most filled with dust and otherwise empty, but the problem was that he had no one really to pray to, nor did he really believe it was going to be so easy.

The moment Lame-Name disappeared in their office, however, Oikawa escaped to his room with all the paper bags and most importantly his smartphone. He would take care of the new clothes later – he planned to do the cleaning in the ugly old ones anyway – but he _had to_ try out the phone as soon as possible.

“Charger…”

For a split second he was mortified. There had to be a socket somewhere in his room, right? Lame-Name had a TV, a phone, and a washing machine, never mention the lamps, so the house had electricity for sure, right? Oikawa’s eyes scanned the walls in panic. He didn’t find any sockets at the first glance, so he dropped to the floor to check under the bed, and closed his eyes in relief. Now he just had to be patient, plug in the charger and leave the phone until the battery is full… the instructions clearly mentioned to not use it when charging, and he wasn’t about to let it explode or something because he was rushing along. And since he had time to kill…

 _Kill_ was the perfect word for what was about to happen.

Laundry seemed to be the lightest task out of the whole list, so he begrudgingly entered the washroom, dragging the granny bag behind him. He unloaded all the big bottles, mops, packs of gloves, wipes, towels and other weapons against this clusterfuck, brought forth the laundry detergent and the fabric softener, and he turned to the pile of dirty clothes, pulling on his pink rubber gloves with a snap.

Lame-Name didn’t say anything about doing things correctly. Oikawa’s face beamed with a serene smile when he started shoving white and black fabrics together into the old washing machine until there was no space left inside. It shouldn’t be his fault that the white would dye grey like that, no? He surely had no idea and it was an honest mistake! The woollen sweaters would shrink and the delicate, silky shirts would be obliterated, but how he could have predicted that. He felt like he had solved a complicated puzzle and won a grand prize.

It took him a while to figure out what buttons to push and where he should pour what, but eventually the machine lazily began the cycle. He investigated the remaining pile and estimated that it would make another ten fills minimum. That was fine. He had every intention to pretend there was no such thing as complex multitasking in his dictionary and he wanted to spend a pleasant afternoon and evening on fixing the carelessly crumpled towels and bedsheets dumped on the shelves to folded masterpieces. Slowly. Very, very slowly.

While contemplating a strategy, he dug through the mountain to get to the dryer… but he didn’t find one. His eyelid twitched and he marched out of the washroom, a man on a mission.

Lame-Name was sitting cross-legged at their desk, writing on a long scrap of paper with astonishing speed. Once they ran out of space, they lifted the paper between the index and middle finger of their left hand, waved it… and it disappeared. No smoke, no light, no sound – it was simply _gone_. Oikawa narrowed his eyes. One more thing to file for excusing later, he reckoned. He cleared his throat.

“Sumigami-sama?”

_Ugh, addressing them like this is the worst. Ridiculous._

No reaction. They seemed so invested in their work that his voice didn’t register to them.

“Sumigami-sama.”

Nothing. He clicked his tongue in irritation.

“Sumigami-sama!”

They flinched.

“Yes, Oikawa?” They didn’t look up, swirling the calligraphy brush on another slip. Another wave, and it vanished. Another paper shuffled closer to meet with the brush.

“Where is the laundry dryer?”

“There isn’t one. You can hang the laundry in any empty room. Or in the garden, but it might be too cold for that right now.”

Oikawa gritted his teeth. If this kept up, he would soon wear down the enamel.

“Hang it on what?” he asked with a smile.

“There should be some lines and hooks in the supply room. It’s next to yours, you’ve surely seen the cardboard boxes. A hammer should be there, too.” They tapped their chin with the end of the brush. “Actually, I recall there might be some lines put up in one of the farther rooms down the hall…”

“A room down the hall,” he repeated, forcing himself not to roll his eyes. “All right.”

“And, Oikawa…” Lame-Name droned when he was already at the threshold, “we will talk a bit in the evening. At eight should be fine. Do try not to be tardy, please.”

“Uh… sure.”

Oikawa was certain the boxes in the supply room were unsigned and stacked on random, so his only hope to avoid being stuck for hours digging through all that was that such room with laundry lines really existed. He peeked into three empty rooms before he found it. Wider than his bedroom – about as if two rooms put together, with two windows, and cut across with lots of extended strings. Some of them lied in the dust on the floor; the hooks must have slipped out of the holes after however long they weren’t checked up on, but that didn’t matter. He had been spared.

Back to the washroom, he kicked the dirty clothes into as much of a small space as possible, swept the uncovered floor, and then threw down all the haphazardly treated towels and sheets, sorting them into piles by type as he went. He mulled over what Lame-Name had said, wondering what he was going to hear; something concrete about his situation, he hoped.

_Or else please let it be that I don’t have to clean the kitchen._

More importantly, he discovered by chance that once Lame-Name sat down to work, whatever its purpose was, they were so immersed that getting their attention required quite a loud noise. Additionally, they seemed to work for hours on end, if his conclusions from last night’s observation were correct. Of course, he had to gain more proof than just one night, but it was a start. He didn’t know what to do with that information yet, but he was sure it would be of use at some point. Like for whenever he would plan to book it.

Folding another towel into a compact rectangle, he frowned and bit his lips.

_I need some money first. Where can I get money? How? Steal? Lame-Name paid for all the shopping with cash, they must have a stash somewhere._

But the idea of stealing it didn’t sit well in his stomach. Never mind how arrogant and dismissive Lame-Name was towards him, how they made him take care of this unimaginable filth, and how badly he hated their guts. It wasn’t about them – the act of stealing itself brought a sour taste in his mouth.

He reluctantly added to it that they did give him shelter when he had no prospects, and bought him stuff that arguably wasn’t a priority, save for the smartphone.

Oikawa scowled.

_That is no excuse for their behaviour. Ugh, I want to squeeze my hands around their neck…_

He bunched up the folded towel into a ball and threw it angrily against the door. It landed softly on the threshold. Great. Now he had to get up and bring it back, and fold it all over again. When he lifted it from the floor, he saw dark copper brown stains on one end of it that he had missed earlier. They weren’t big, the largest about the size of his fingernail, and only six; nevertheless, it didn’t take a genius to guess that those used to be deep red. Blood red. He stared at it for a good while, his mind drifting away until he caught himself and shook his head to get back to the present. He shrugged and folded the towel all the same, only minding to put it where it wouldn’t be used any time soon.

The washing cycle finally ended and he moved the flowery smelling, wet clothes out of the machine and into a big basket, hoisted it on his hip and wobbled out to the drying room.

To his disappointment, the white fabrics didn’t dye grey as much as he hoped for, some of them outright retaining their crisp, pure lack of colour. His fingers were chilled to the bone by the time he hung the last shirt (beautifully, irregularly stained grey), and he counted that around a third of the lines were occupied. Even if he fixed the fallen hooks, which he absolutely didn’t want to, with the amount of laundry still waiting to be done, it was going to take more than a week to be over with, taking the drying time into consideration.

He was done with all the shelves and the second round of laundry a little past seven. Unable to contain his excitement, he abandoned the empty basket in the drying room and skipped to his dark bedroom, without switching on the lamp, diving for his phone. He sat on the floor next to the bed and unplugged it from the charger. 

_Now then…_

Oikawa held his breath and turned the phone on. The pale light from the screen illuminated his face and reflected in his wide eyes. He had his priorities set: first, he would learn how to make a call, and then he would call Ikuo-chan, the rest he postponed for later. He loved how cosmic the whole thing was, how awesome was to just smooth his finger over the surface to do anything.

Figuring out how to dial was easy and he picked the number from the little note he had received. There was a funny signal, and then–

“Yes? Who’s this?”

Oikawa beamed, all giddy.

“Ikuo-chan, hi! Hi! It’s Oikawa.”

There was a brief pause.

“Um… sorry, who?”

“From the morning, remember?” Oikawa pressed on, guessing the hairdresser simply forgot his name. “You gave me your number in the shop, but I didn’t have a Japanese phone yet, so–”

“I’m sorry, but I didn’t give anyone my number today.”

“But you are Ikuo-chan, right?” He was sure it was the same voice.

“Well, yes. I’d rather prefer you drop the chan, though. Did a friend give you my number? Was it Kai?”

“No, no. Like I’ve said, you gave it to me this morning,” Oikawa repeated. His stomach shrunk.

“… I didn’t give anyone my number today, not even this month,” Ikuo insisted. “Sorry, but that definitely didn’t happen, don’t pretend it did. I don’t know any Oikawa either. Whoever you are, please don’t call me again.”

Ikuo cut the call and Oikawa remained as he was, sitting on the phone, listening to the empty line until even the beeping stopped and the room fell silent. He dropped his hand to his lap.

“Why bother giving a number when you treat me like a creep later,” he grumbled. “ _Definitely didn’t happen_ , my ass. Two-faced jerk.”

To soothe the slight pinprick to his pride, he absorbed himself into studying the phone, discovering all the surprising features. Who decided to add a camera to a phone? A calendar? An alarm clock? A gallery of what? A calculator? What does _downloads_ even mean? There was a way to send text messages… or even with pictures? It had also a bunch of colourful icons, as he’d read they were called, that seemed to be games, but he’d never seen games like that. There was plenty of stuff he had no clue what was for yet, but was looking forward to puzzling out. He could save Ikuo’s number to a “contact list” but he didn’t, out of spite.

He saw the time noted in tiny digits in the upper corner of the screen and jolted. He was seven minutes late to the talk with Lame-Name.

Stringing curses in thought, he left the phone on his pillow and jogged to the living room. It was empty.

“Sumigami-sama?”

No answer. He peered into the office. The desk was vacant as well, one dirty brush leaning against the drying ink stone.

“Sumigami-sama!”

“Come over here, Oikawa,” came from deeper into the room.

Brows furrowed, he entered the labyrinth of densely standing high shelves stacked full with thousands of folders. The room was way vaster than he had predicted; he called it a labyrinth, because although his path lead straight ahead, he had a hunch that the moment he strayed to the side, he would get lost immediately among the claustrophobic corridors. The place was uncanny, he felt intensely watched and _discussed_ , as if the air was filled with whispers on a level beyond the silence.

At the end of the line, there was a screen door pushed aside, opening the space to a wooden porch. Lame-Name sat at the edge, feet in striped grey socks dangling over a big, still, dark pond, darker than the cloudy night sky. The banks were bordered with smooth, white stones, in a couple of places obscured by thickets of dead reeds. Around the pond was another part of the garden he had seen through the front door, the same desiccated grass, mosses, leafless trees and a bunch of bent pines, all enclosed in a frame of a tall brick wall.

“You’re late, Oikawa.”

“Sorry, I lost track of time.”

“I supposed so. Come, sit.”

They patted the wooden panels next to them and he reluctantly did so, creating almost a metre of space between them. It should have been cold outside, but he somehow was not freezing just in his grey-and-greyer sweater, and neither seemed Lame-Name, despite the white clouds of breath leaving their lips and traces of ice on the pond.

“Have you called Ikuo-chan by any chance?”

“Oh, yes!” He grinned. “He was happy to hear from me. We’ll be sending messages to each other now. See? He didn’t forget me, you were wrong. Why would he, anyway?”

“Is that so?” Lame-Name questioned, rubbing the back of their neck. “That’s… surprising.”

“What’s so surprising about it?” he scoffed. “He gave me his number, why would he not want to keep in touch?”

“Nothing will ever come out of it, Oikawa,” Lame-Name said quietly. “You would be better off dropping it now instead of suffering later. He will either eventually forget you, or you’ll see him age and die, or…”

“Or what?” he asked. “That is, assuming this is not bu– assuming it’s not made up.”

“Look at your name mark.”

“What of it?” He rolled up his sleeve and glanced at his left wrist. “Huh… wasn’t it dark red?”

“The colour fades out quickly,” Lame-Name replied. “It’s dark grey now, isn’t it?”

“Almost black, I guess?”

“Like your outfit the day we met,” they added. “They both reflect the state of your soul. Of you.”

“Which is…?”

“The darker the mark, the worse it is.”

“Oh. That… doesn’t sound fun.”

“Whatever you did in your latest life, it was bad enough to get your soul this filthy,” Lame-Name continued. “And your following life will be… well, you know how this works. You’ll pay for what you did, one way or another.”

Goosebumps raised on his arms. He pulled the sleeve down.

“So, assuming this is not made up… is there anything I can do to avoid that?”

“ _Assuming it’s not made up_ , you can try.” Lame-Name laced their fingers together and rested their hands neatly in their lap. “Souls get stuck between the lives from time to time. There are several reasons it can happen, but no matter why, they often end up being eaten by phantoms since they linger where they shouldn’t. Sometimes, a deity can take such stray under their wings, if they are inclined to. Most are. Personally, I don’t care what it was that you did in your previous life. You are starting over now, even if it’s not in a Near Shore setting.”

Lame-Name finally looked at him, eyes bottomless and empty as usual.

“Treat this as a particularly rare opportunity, the best you could’ve gotten in your condition. Work for it. The lighter the mark, the better chance you will have and you can move on to a less burdened life. I don’t have to tell you how much that means.”

“And I’m supposed to make it lighter how?”

“That’s your responsibility to find out. If it were that easy, everyone would live a perfect life,” Lame-Name said with a shrug, and just like that his entire attitude plummeted.

“Oh, I see,” he gritted out. “That’s great.”

“Another thing,” Lame-Name droned in monotone. “When introducing yourself, don’t ever mention your core name. Only use Oikawa.”

“Why?”

“A soul can be compelled to obey any order in two separate circumstances: either when the soul is unnamed, or when the ordering one knows the entire name.” Lame-Name ran their fingers through their hair. “I did it back on the beach when I told you to come closer.”

_So that’s what it was… disgusting._

“I don’t like it,” they admitted. “I do hope I won’t be cornered to use that against you.”

_This might turn out troublesome._

“So… no sharing Tōru,” he summed up.

“Exactly.” Lame-Name pressed their palms together and glanced at him again. “You must have a lot of questions. I’ll try to answer what I can. Go ahead.”

Oikawa blinked. Not only he didn’t expect he would have the opportunity to ask anything, but he also had so many things he wanted to know that he was stuck at what he should start with.

_Priorities, priorities…_

“I want a salary,” he blurted out. “I know you gave me a room to stay in, but you’ve also put a hell lot of work on me, and I am not going to do it for free. I want my own budget.”

“Fair enough. How much?”

_How much…? I thought they’d reject…_

“I’ll get back to you on this, I don’t know yet.”

“Fine. I’ll deduct the costs of your phone and clothes from it, though. The hairdresser’s on me.”

“O-okay.” He took a deep breath. This was going better than he had hoped. “Uh… what else… um… oh, right. The hairdresser… The hairdresser woman recognised you, and you’d said earlier that–”

“Some people don’t forget so fast,” Lame-Name explained before he finished the question. “I went there last month. Naomi-chan is more aware by a microscopic margin, that’s all.”

“Why did she call you Yamamura-san?”

“I use this name when dealing with the Near Shore. It’s after a movie character I liked. When we are out there, please do address me as such as well.”

“Should I use an alias, too?”

“If you want.” They shrugged. “You have a name; just don’t spill the core part.”

_The core… the name… the beach._

“You’ve said… at the hairdresser’s… that I died fifty… sixty years ago.”

“That’s right.”

“Then why did you say there was my corpse at the beach? It couldn’t have been there for that long,” he pointed out, satisfied to have found out a hole in Lame-Name’s bullshit story.

Lame-Name blinked slowly at him and he had to restrain himself from punching the air in victory.

“What makes you think any laws of space or time apply to those who are of the Far Shore? Past, present? What meaning really do they have for us?”

“But not the future?”

“Of course not. What would be the point of anything if you knew the outcome before it began?” They sighed, shaking their head. “Anything else you want to know?”

_How do I begin to unpack THAT?_

“Obviously!” he exclaimed. “I… you’ve put me in a spot here, I can’t even decide what to ask!”

“You have fourteen minutes, I go back to work after that. We can talk more tomorrow, maybe.”

“More work?” Oikawa raised his eyebrow. “It’s so late. When do you _not_ work?”

“I take breaks on occasion, two or three times a month at least.” Lame-Name scratched their head.

“You sleep once or twice _a month?_ ” He turned his head fully to stare at them, wide-eyed.

“Sleep? No, I usually watch anime or visit Kiyoomi. I don’t need sleep.”

“So you just work around the clock every day besides that?”

“Who else is gonna take care of the thoughts and prayers addressed to me?” Lame-Name lifted their feet from above the pond to sit cross-legged instead. “Going by the ratio of how many of those I receive and how many I can grant, if I were human, I would be an atheist.”

“That’s an… odd thing to hear from an alleged deity.”

“Think what you will, your opinion has no influence on the matter.” They cracked their fingers. “Anything else?”

“Uh… I…” Oikawa rubbed his face with one hand. “ _Fu–_ uh, this is too much at once, I have to think about this first.”

“Very well. We can talk tomorrow.” Lame-Name stood up and so did he. “Good work today.”

He followed them through the labyrinth until they took a turn to sit at the desk, and he walked straight ahead through the living room, to his bedroom, but he swivelled on his heel in the threshold and marched back to the office.

“Why am I not hungry?” he shot. “I haven’t been hungry at all since yesterday, and I haven’t eaten anything.”

_Not that I could swallow any food after seeing that kitchen._

Lame-Name turned unhurriedly to stare over their shoulder.

“Why do you think?”

He glared back.

“Then what’s the point of me cooking here?”

“Don’t you want to eat something nice every now and then?” they replied with a question. “No need doesn’t mean no wish.”

“… okay.”

“Don’t forget, six in the morning. I’ll show you how to make better coffee.”

Biting his lips, Oikawa returned to his room and threw himself on the bed face first. His phone bounced on the pillow and he caught it before it could slide off. He unlocked it and stared at the bright screen.

_What do I do with this now? I have no one to call. I can’t go out to meet anyone. I probably won’t see anyone besides Lame-Name until that brother of theirs comes over, and if he’s anywhere near like them, he will be no fun to interact with either._

Oikawa pouted, mindlessly swiping between the two (mostly empty) panels of the home screen. For no reason in particular, he tapped on the camera icon, and to his shock, he saw himself. He blinked slowly, turned his face to watch himself from different angles, with different expressions. His cheeks were hollow and the dark circles under his eyes made him cringe internally, but this haircut and general clean-up did him a lot of good, he had to admit. He smiled, chose the best angle, and snapped his first photo. A little change, and another picture. And one more.

He had to start eating to fill out this skinny body, and had to catch lots of good sleep to fix his complexion. The latter didn’t pose much of a challenge; he had a bed, peace and quiet – sort of, and he actually was the slightest bit tired. 

But as for the eating part…

_Take-outs from a restaurant for the time being, maybe? Anything but cleaning that hellhole…_

He turned off the camera to check out the games. There were three. He obviously knew what sudoku was, but the two other titles told him nothing. One icon was a bright pink raspberry, and the other a lightning-shaped figure made out of four green squares. He picked the green figure.

Tetris, it was titled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oikawa: Damn, bitch, you live like this?  
> Lame-Name: Watch your profanity
> 
> > I did make collages with those memes  
> > I would reaaaaally appreciate comments! I'm seriously pouring my heart into this one...


End file.
